


Ginny/Pansy Drabbles and Short Stories

by shyath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyath/pseuds/shyath
Summary: Crossposted from Fanfiction.net. Various drabbles and short stories featuring Ginny/Pansy.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Kudos: 8





	1. Between Breeding and Strawberries

Her breeding demanded that she grew up detesting a great range of things: muggleborns, garden gnomes, cobwebs in the corners, haggis, outdated fashion, sweet things - and many more. So when her lover impressed upon her the importance of consuming vitamins and whatnots in the form of strawberries, the crinkling of Pansy's nose indicated just about enough the extent of her ... displeasure.

But then Ginny had smiled broadly and beckoned Pansy come into the bedroom after a little over fifteen minutes. When Pansy complied and found Ginny on the bed, being quite the feast to the eyes, ears and well - to the overall senses, the sweetness of the strawberries arranged quite artistically on Ginny's pale and, to Pansy's eyes, flawless skin became the least of Pansy's worries and priorities. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to forget my breeding for tonight," Pansy murmured as she climbed onto the bed.


	2. If This Is How Guilt Feels Like

When they were much younger, Ginny would always remember to keep her windows on the third floor of the Burrow open and a makeshift rope of hand-me-downs that no longer fit ready at hand. Then she would sit herself neatly by the sill, her eyes eagerly scanning the unkempt grounds surrounding her ancestral home for the familiar shadow. But she sometimes (always) falls asleep, lulled past the gates of dreamland with the soft whisper of the wind and the almost painful (but calming) prick of various trinkets clutched in her tiny hand which her (best) best friend brings her every time she comes for a visit.

She would always (sometimes) wake up though when she heard the sharp hiss just below her, the frustration seeping through as a soft, childish voice let out a string of colourful words that would make even her older twin brothers blush to be on the receiving end.

"I'm up!" she would say hurriedly, a little too loudly and Pansy would glare at her (Ginny would always inexplicably blush). "Sorry," she would add automatically as she lowered the rope.

Pansy would release a long-suffering sigh but then she would tug once at the rope to make sure it was taut and then she would climb. In that first moment when Pansy was about to enter her window and Ginny was about to retreat to make room for Pansy, Pansy would allow Ginny the luxury of seeing her smile and it would always (always) make Ginny's week.

"I miss you," they would whisper in one breath as they leaned closer to see the reflection of moonlight (shadow) in each other's eyes. Then they would break apart with a childish grin (but Ginny would never tell Pansy how adorable she always looks when she smiles after moments like that) and then fall back together in a tangle of limbs.

Ginny loves it when Pansy brushes her hair. She herself is much too clumsy to wield any tools smaller than her ancient broomstick. She doesn't really need to, obviously. Mrs. Weasley makes sure that Ginny's luxurious (flame) red hair is without tangle before she is tucked in for the night (but she obviously doesn't know who her youngest has in her room at night either). But Pansy doesn't point out the obvious when she has been offered the opportunity to be so close to Ginny. She knows how the eight year-old feel about her: a sense of innocent affection that one would feel for an older playmate or an older sister.

The thought angers Pansy and she apparently lets it show as Ginny's little exclamation of pain filters through her thoughts. "Sorry," she whispers gently, patting the side of Ginny's head absently. Ginny should never know how Pansy feels about her (or thinks about her, or dreams about her).

Ginny doesn't really remember how it starts and she doesn't dare to ask Pansy (in case it reminds the older girl that they are never really supposed to have whatever this is they're having). In rare moments when she allows her imagination to take over (and she really shouldn't because she tends to believe them more than reality), she likes to think it all starts with the crook of a finger, the slight twist at the end of lips and the soft, almost indiscernible whisper across her skin.

But Pansy is never so romantic or so subtle and she hates to mark or gets marked. She pulls away whenever she feels Ginny's nails are starting to dig into her skin and she stops to take a calming breath whenever it's her turn to lose control. Sometimes Ginny thinks Pansy's only in this because she likes the feeling of teetering on the edge, her and Ginny both. How else is she to explain why they are always (fucking) in empty rooms, the doors left unlocked so that anyone can walk in anytime (when Pansy is whimpering against closed lips in Ginny's arms or when Ginny is biting her own arm so that she won't say anything that will make Pansy pull away)?

They never make appointment as to the where and the when. When they meet, Pansy rarely talks and Ginny tries her best not to ask how her day has been. Pansy fucks her like she's angry, like Ginny's guilty and somewhere between climbing and falling off a high, Ginny usually (always) becomes convinced that she should indeed be asking for penance (for a crime she's not informed about). But occasionally Pansy gentles and it's so sweet Ginny has to somehow concentrate to keep the tears burning behind her eyes.

Then they're done and Ginny's hugging the pillow (soaked liberally with Pansy's scent) close to her face, trying her best not to peek and see as Pansy gets up without a word, slips back into her robes, inch after inch of her skin disappearing back into clothes that really does nothing to hinder Ginny's imagination (and leaves Ginny on the bed with crumpled sheets, in the room where sex lingers in the air like a tangible temptress).

Pansy never says goodbye and Ginny certainly hopes she won't start.

Pansy doesn't love Ginny. She has known that since they were just children. She likes the idea Ginny represents though: an innocence that really should not survive the rampages of puberty. She likes to stay awake long after Ginny has gone to sleep, braiding their hair together (black and red) and always feels unbearably frustrated (saddened) when they break apart in the end.

She likes leaving marks where Ginny never notices (under her breast, at that blind spot behind her ear) because Ginny is hers and not Potter's. It doesn't matter what people say because she knows whose name Ginny calls out in silence when she comes. She likes all that but that doesn't mean she loves her, does it? Of course not, she tells herself as she holds Ginny closer as she whimpers and shakes through a nightmare.


	3. Take Me Home

It was a few months into the War before they finally admitted that they had begun to crack (to break).

Oh, some realised a lot earlier than that. But some things were better left unsaid. The adults had watched grimly, their time had yet to come. Or maybe, theirs had already passed, and out of some misguided conception of compassion, they had turned a blind eye to the distractions the younger wizards and witches endeavoured to keep occupied with. At least they were not so debilitated that they failed to turn up for battles, Lupin had joked lamely. No one had even tried to offer a chuckle in response.

But even with the leeway granted to them, some things were stretched so far beyond the boundaries of propriety that even Ron, the most debauched of all by then, felt it was his 'brotherly duty' to speak up. Ginny knew that everyone was aware of what went on behind closed doors. There were enough gaps and cracks in the groaning monstrosity they had adopted as their hideout that there was never enough enchantment to be cast to keep prying eyes and eager ears away from things that 'should be done in secret'.

The sighs. The moans. The scent of tobacco that hung about her in the strangest of places. She felt as if she carried a brand about her person (and for that, she was equally proud and ashamed). For wizards and witches who had spent most of their formative years sneaking about, all of them were terrible at keeping their curiosity discreet.

What was the big deal anyway? Everyone was indulging in one sort of evil or another. As far as Ginny was concerned, what she was doing (immersed in) was definitely not any worse than anything else they were doing. A lot healthier anyway. Besides, Hermione and Fleur were doing basically the same thing. She had seen them before (when she sneaked out of the room she shared with Hermione and Hermione was just sneaking back in) - the secret touches, the knowing smiles. She knew all the signs, and by Hermione's commiserating look, she knew that Hermione knew she knew. Fleur was Bill's widow. Should that not put the two of them on the same footing with Pansy and her? Should that not warrant the same treatment? It was not as if either of them were lepers or some sort of stigmatised personage. If anything, for reneging on Voldemort, Pansy should be treated as if she were a hero. For people claiming to be all about fairness, her supposed friends were surprisingly bigoted.

Ginny picked her way quickly but carefully through the dilapidated ground floor, up the rickety staircase, and down the creaking corridor to stop in front of a yawning hole where the door to the room beyond had once been. The wind was blowing inward tonight and wafted tendrils of grey smoke into the house, helping her somewhat in locating Pansy (though she would never really need aid in that). The faint glow at the end of the cigarette lit up the brunette's face for a split second before she turned to regard Ginny.

"Come here," she rasped, snuffing out the cigarette on one of the soles of the practical boots she had taken to wearing.

Ginny stepped forward eagerly, taking the hand Pansy extended and (automatically) entwining their fingers together. _She's alive_. The pang of relief that came with that simple contact was enough to knock the breath clean out of Ginny. "You're hurt," she said softly, moving her free hand to caress around the long but thin cut on Pansy's shoulder. "That'll leave a scar if you don't get it treated immediately."

"Leave it be," Pansy responded gruffly, pulling Ginny into the circle of her own arms.

Ginny understood what was not said. _It'll just be another scar on me_. She did not say anything but brought her two arms together to wrap around Pansy's neck. She stepped deeper into the hold (into Pansy) and buried her face into the crook of Pansy's shoulder. _She's alive_. It was a ritual they had established. Returning from the battles they had begun to trudge into and out of almost by rote, when the images were still fresh behind their eyelids, when the wounds still bled - you really began to feel like you were just as dead as the bodies you left behind. "I'm here," she whispered, choking on her own tears. After all these months, she had thought she had run out of tears to be shed. Apparently she was sorely mistaken.

"Yeah," Pansy agreed, "yeah." Her nails dug into Ginny's back. Whether she noticed or not was besides the point. In a world that felt like everything was beyond your control, to have control over what (or who) to hurt or to please - there was a certain security in that. As long as it was self-inflicted, whether it be pain or pleasure, there was a silver lining to be seen as far as they were concerned. "Take me to bed," she whispered after a while.

Ginny pulled back slightly. Pansy reeked of sweat, blood and that sweet, sweet scent of death - but oh Merlin, she was the most beautiful vision Ginny had ever been graced with. "I'll take you to bed."

* * *

There was nothing beautiful in the first phase of the act. However gentle (or slow, or romantic) they might try to be in the implementation, one of them would begin to thrash around (to claw, to draw blood) and in the pulling and/or pushing that followed, both would inevitably be drawn to fall into the chasm. Only after that first exertion of the purely physical could the harried soul of the jaded soldier, whichever of the two for that night would be (they were rarely out to battles simultaneously), be calm enough to let the girl inside out. Barely of age and they had to undertake burdens that would have weighed down wizards and witches, no - women and men, twice their age. But was this not the path they had chosen for themselves?

Wars turn strangers into friends and friends into strangers. Did that mean that she would not have loved Pansy had it not been for the war? Should she be the slightest bit grateful (or perhaps, angry) for the blood that had been spilled because it gave her the chance to hold this beautiful, beautiful woman in her arms? "I love you," Ginny whispered softly as she looked down at Pansy. Trapped between her arms, between her body and the hard bed, Pansy could not have looked freer than she did at that moment.

Pansy smiled beatifically and surged up to press her lips once more to Ginny. She pushed and prodded, licked and caressed, plunged and pulled back, nipped and bit - a combination of so many sensations that Ginny began to see stars behind her eyelids.

Ginny would never tell (or perhaps she would, if Pansy were a very, very good girl), but she lived for this moment. She loved Pansy when she was in the throes of passion, when she was in the grips of sorrow, when she was angry, when she was a lot of things. But reduced to her very core – when it was nothing like Pansy and Ginny, or Ginny and Pansy, when it was just their two hearts beating in sync, when their blood rushed to all the places left usually untouched, when nothing else of the outside world stood to mar whatever was left as their own - moments like this made her wish the War would go on forever, that reality could just move on without the two of them, that the sky would just split open, but just let them be frozen in this moment.

* * *

The end of the War was anticlimactic. It came down to Harry versus Voldemort. As always. Perhaps all the battles they had gone through were simply warm-up sessions for the main characters. It certainly felt that way. Whatever it was, however it was, to know that these months had ended, to know that they could (tentatively) return to normal life (whatever that meant) - was somewhat scary. Where did they all stand now? What about Pansy and her? What about Hermione and Fleur? What about everyone else?

Déjà vu, she thought as she paused in the doorway (just like she had for so many nights ever since their first). Pansy's familiar silhouette against the fluttering, ragged curtains was (surprisingly) reassuring. She realised with a twinge of guilt that a small part of her had expected the two of them to be halves of a wartime fling, that the end of the War should see the two of them parting ways. By the clammy feeling in her hands, that small part of her was beginning to succeed in persuading the rest of her.

Her family and friends had tolerated their 'relationship' because they had been in the War, because (like Ron had said one night after too much or too little of Firewhiskey) 'abnormal had become normal and normal had become abnormal.' She knew Ron should be the last person to be paid attention to. These last few months he had spent swaggering around with bottles in both his hands, coming onto everything that moved on two legs - he was so far gone that even Harry left him alone most of the time.

"Ginny," came Pansy's voice, and it sounded clear (clean) for the first time.

Ginny realised too late that the scent of tobacco she had come to associate with Pansy was missing. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice shaky as she looked up.

Pansy was still standing against the window, but her gaze was fixed firmly at something outside, beyond the window. The familiar cigarette was missing from the grip of her fingers. "It's over, Ginny," she whispered.

It had been a full day and more since the War had been officially declared over. But Ginny understood the disbelief in Pansy's voice. "It's over," she murmured reassuringly. She had yet to cross over the threshold. She had never found it so hard to do such a simple thing as to lift one foot.

"My parents -" Pansy's voice broke and she shook her head vigorously. "Are they -"

"They're headed for Azkaban," Ginny filled in awkwardly. She clenched her hands into fists. They had talked before. It was not all physical between them. But Pansy's family was the one thing they had agreed mutually not to touch upon.

"Oh," Pansy said. There was a disturbing hollow quality to her tone. "I suppose I should've expected that." She fell quiet once more. "What am I going to do, Ginny?" she asked softly (lost).

Ginny moved forward before she could stop herself. She turned Pansy around and moved her hands to cup Pansy's cheeks, stopping her tears midway and pressing hard into cheekbones that had grown more pronounced lately. "I -" she began to say. Why was it so hard to say what she needed to say?

"You need to go," Pansy hissed, even as her hands covered Ginny's. "You've got somewhere to go back to. Go home, Ginny."

She was right. Her family remained fortunately intact - physically, if not mentally. But that was enough. "Comewithme," Ginny announced before she had actually begun to think it through.

"Sorry?"

"C-come with me."

"Don't be foolish."

"I'm serious, Pansy."

Pansy snorted. "What are you going to say to your parents? I'm a Parkinson, Ginny. Old scars don't disappear, you know." Her hand moved to cover a section of her arm - where the mark would remain to brand her a Death Eater. For life.

"Yeah, I know. But - but -" she hurried before Pansy could interrupt. "I don't care about all of that. I love you. Scars and cuts and wounds and everything. My parents - well, they'd be angry but that doesn't matter. The boys can go to hell for all I care. Home won't be home without you." She was stunned into silence by the truth in that spur-of-the-moment declaration. Perhaps it was the absence of tobacco and blood in the air, but for the first time, she could think straight. There was no rush in her thoughts in regards to Pansy. There was no fear that one of them would be gone come morning. They were both alive. They had survived the War. She paused to take a breath and continued gently, smiling slowly as she caressed Pansy's jaw line, "Let me take you home."

Pansy looked at Ginny as if she had gone bonkers for a full second before a small smile emerged. Pushing forward with a shyness Ginny had never seen her display, she pressed her lips against Ginny's. "Take me home," Pansy whispered huskily, her eyes closed as she pulled a hair's breadth away.

"I'll take you home," Ginny replied, before she moved in for another kiss.

Home could wait for a few more hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for the community at femmefest.


	4. I Want All My Memories To Be Of You

I want a love that is like the first snowflake of the season: brief and fleeting, I think that such a love will at least leave me without a scar, and the memories that remain will be eternally sweet in the transience – like a rare delicacy. I have tried to live my life thus far in such a manner. I fall in and out of love as the sun sets and then rises once more. I whisper a different name every single night and I never press my lips against the same skin twice. I promise sweet nothings to the feel of a stranger's body and I always make sure to drink just enough that I never remember more than the taste left on my fingers and lips. To love faceless bodies is much easier on the heart.

I have known the taste and texture of a desperate love, an all-consuming love, a young love and I have come out charred, scarred, pained, ruined, completely broken. I have come away with the vivid impression of a redhead with a pair of flashing brown eyes imprinted into my eyes, the feel of her curves burned into my hands and the smell of her hair permanent in the air surrounding me. She haunts me like childhood nightmares, like teenage dreams.

I cannot catalogue every single kiss I have had, but every single one I have had with Ginny remains so very clear in my mind that I can imagine another pair of lips to be moving with mine as I shut out the early morning sunlight. That is my cue to leave. I never stay around for the morning after and I do not plan to start now. There is no point in getting attached, I have nothing to offer besides a good time and I know better than anyone that meaningless sex does no good to most anyone.

Apparating home without leaving even a single note, the first thing I see on my coffee table (apart from the mess) is a rather conspicuous letter. I have some sort of an idea as to what it may be, but I do not yet need to know. I turn to my bedroom. I need to scrub away the smell of a stranger. It is only during the day that I permit the smell of Ginny to envelop me, I feel less lonely with the sun still around to cloak me in its warmth. It is only when it sets that I seek out another sort of warmth.

"Aren't you going to open it?" a voice speaks up from the corner of the living room.

I freeze and slowly grate out, "No."

"Please," Ginny's voice sounds exactly the same and it bothers me endlessly. How dare she remains the same when I feel like my whole world has come undone.

"I know what it is. Congratulations," I hiss, "now will you please leave me bloody well alone?"

"Pansy," Ginny whispers. I hear the slight rustle of fabric and it is not more than five seconds later that I feel her just behind me. "Don't -"

"Don't what? Don't be mean? Don't be rightfully affronted? Don't start with me, Weasley!" I know the use of her surname is worse than any insult my Slytherin brain can ever think up.

"It's not what I want," she starts, her fingers twitching as they press against my back.

"No, but you're doing it nonetheless," I point out, sucking in a breath as I feel her fingers splay across my back. Her nails dig into a sensitive spot and her curves flatten against mine as her other arm wraps around my waist. She needs to leave. My legs can barely stop trembling.

"Pansy," Ginny whispers again, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the side of my neck. I can hear the slightly wet sounds of her kisses and I can just imagine the way her teeth alternate with her tongue and lips in making contact with my skin. Somehow the idea that she is kissing the exact same spots that my lover of last night has kissed is turning me on so much.

"Stop," I breathe, reaching forward with both of my hands. Feeling the solidness of the wall in front of me, I relax my stance slightly. My knees still buckle a little. "Please, just go. Please." I do not beg, I do not plead, but my personal rules never apply when it is Ginny Weasley I am interacting with.

"Pansy," she persists, her voice is lower than I remember and the pure heat of the sound lands immediately in my centre. Her hand trails upward underneath my loose shirt, pressing slightly chipped nails against my bare skin, skimming the underside of one of my breasts and finally raking against an immediately erect nipple.

"Don't, Ginny. Stop. Please," I groan. I do not know she can be so cruel.

"Please," she returns, pushing me forward with her hips, spreading my legs with a nudge of a well-placed thigh. "One last time," she goes on, pulling hard at the collar of my shirt. I think I almost cry at her words, at the sound of threads ripping, at the sound of her increased frenzy. She bites at my shoulder, soothes over it with the flat of her tongue and plays with both of my breasts while she grinds her hips into my bottom. Something about this pronounces the end of our relationship much louder than anything else ever can, ever will.

"Please," I whisper needlessly, suddenly turning around in her arms. "One last time."

I think I see tears welling up in her eyes, but she pushes forward with a kiss and I cannot remember anything else before that. If she can taste another on my lips, she does not say. If I can taste someone else on her lips, I do not say either. This moment is about the two of us, just the two of us. Any complaints, any words, any promises die on our lips as she thrusts into me and I thrust into her. I meet her as she meets me one last time. Our final goodbye.

When the two of us are well spent, when the only sound in the air is our laboured breathing and the last rays of sunlight turn the red of her hair into gold, she tells me, "The wedding is in two months."

I know, but I do not say anything.

The silence is beautiful and the feel of her fingers intertwined with mine is divine. Another faceless lover awaits me tonight and she returns to Harry Potter's waiting arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for FemSlash Advent Calendar: Dog Days of Summer 2009.


	5. Dance With Me

"The key is feeling the rhythm," Pansy insists, guiding Ginny gently but firmly through the dance steps, "then everything else simply falls into place."

"Well, all I feel is manhandled," Ginny complains, shuffling unenthusiastically along to keep up with her girlfriend who looked the very picture of grace especially when put next to her own clumsy self (at least she has not stepped on Pansy's feet - much), "and miserable. And all that's falling is my bottom and it's starting to hurt like all of Azkaban has descended on it with spiked boots."

"Sweetheart, I love you to pieces, but if I hear you complaining one more time," here Pansy flashes Ginny a positively feral smile, "let us assume that a sore derrière is the least of your worries." She sighs and drops a quick kiss to the hand she holds in one of her own. "I'm tired as well. My feet hurt so badly that I cannot justify the pain without resorting to the use of profanity." Pansy smiles more pleasantly. "But you have to at least look like you can dance to perform your duties as the maid of honour."

"Why did I say yes when Hermione asked?"

"Because you're her best friend and you love her. And I suspect _you_ want her to be your maid of honour when it's _our_ wedding."

"You're right." Ginny sighs. "But I still hurt all over."

"Will it motivate you if I promise to kiss it better?"

"All of the sore spots?"

"All of the sore spots."

Ginny pecks Pansy on the lips. "I love the way you think, future Mrs. Parkinson-Weasley."

"You love me, period, future Mrs. Weasley-Parkinson."

Ginny giggles. "I love you indeed."

There is a moment of comfortable silence as the two of them simply sway to the muted sounds of an old radio. Ginny's eyes are closed as Pansy holds her and the feel of a summer fully under way is lulling her to sleep. "Ginny?"

"Hmm?"

"You're dancing just fine," Pansy notes with a touch of pride in her voice.

"Must have felt the rhythm," Ginny whispers, opening her eyes. She pulls away a little to look at Pansy. "Dance with me?"

"Now and forever," Pansy replies, looping her arms around Ginny's neck and pulling her close for a kiss. _Now and forever_ , her mind repeats as Ginny leads her to their bedroom without breaking contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for Challenge #215 ~ Dance at slashthedrabble.


	6. Only at Night

My dreams bleed into reality and my reality into dreams (and I should not need to mention that they are all of you). All I know for certain is that your touches feel too much like air. You pass and do not linger, and you ignore my whispers for more. I ache for a more definite sensation and I want a lover that does not have the feel of a ghost. You laugh my concern away and you tell me I worry too much. But why then must we restrict our time together? And is it simply a coincidence that it is only at night that we may touch?

"Pansy," you whisper against my stomach and it tickles a little where your breath brushes against my overheated skin. "Look at me."

"I am," I tell you, looking down and straight and _in_ (and you cannot tell me that I am not looking).

You smile like it is your last chance and I feel my heart expand and constrict and about to give out. "Let me stay till morning?"

Can you die from happiness? I am pretty sure I am about to. "Yes." I want to pull you up and hold you close and never let you go (cage you in these feelings). "Yes." And I want to tell you to stay and linger, to imprint yourself on my skin (so I cannot forget, so I will not forget), to tell me that you love me. "Yes." I love you, Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for Challenge #200 ~ Prompt! Battle!: Night at femslash100.


	7. I Love Her in Black

I love her in black (or is that I love the black in her?).

Pansy is most beautiful when draped in (embraced by) black. There is assertiveness, poise about her that is never quite there when she is in the presence of other colours. Maybe black brings out the pureblood in her, the way it does for Draco or Blaise - because I think Pansy even carries herself differently, holds her head a little higher, says my name a little more quietly.

I love her in black, but I suspect – I know I would still love her no matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for Challenge #217 ~ Black at slashthedrabble.


	8. Truth in Our Silence

Pansy gasps harshly, her eyes closing against her will and her back arching as Ginny thrusts a final time and drops butterfly kisses along Pansy's collarbone. She trembles almost violently in Ginny's arms – their overheated skin moulded together and there is no clarity as to where one starts and the other ends.

"Pansy," Ginny whispers hotly against the brunette's throat, trailing warm, wet fingers up Pansy's rapidly contracting and expanding abdominal muscles. "Open your eyes," she demands quietly, caressing the underside of one breast.

Pansy's eyes open, stars on the backs of her eyelids only now slowly receding and Ginny first comes blurry into her field of vision.

Ginny smiles and presses their lips together in a chaste kiss. "I love you," Ginny declares against Pansy's lips.

Pansy blinks. "You don't mean that," she hisses.

"I do," Ginny persists, moving both her hands up to cup Pansy's cheeks. "I love you so much, Pansy Parkinson." A brief flicker of worry passes across Ginny's face. "I – do you – I mean, do you feel the same?"

Pansy laughs. "I've only waited a whole decade to hear you tell me that," she replies thickly, tears in her eyes and heart in her throat.

Ginny beams hopefully. "So, you do feel the same?"

"Yes, I love you too, Ginny Weasley," Pansy breathes. "I always have and always will."

Tears well up in Ginny's ears and she whispers, "Good, because I intend to spend the rest of my life with you."

"Good," Pansy repeats, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for Challenge #235 ~ Mood at slashthedrabble.


	9. Come Home to Me

We have no need for words tonight. Just a touch, just a sigh and the thud of our hearts in time with each other, and please, please let time stand still as we make love to the beat of kisses as fervent as a prayer and embraces as desperate as a last wish. Our hands move feverishly, our blood rushes, roars with an innate self-cadence and our tears burn each other as we meld ever closer in an attempt to become one – and who is to say where I begin and you end?

"Pansy."

"Gin."

"Come home to me."

"Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for Challenge #230 ~ Remainder: #226 ~ Heart at femslash100.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was written in response to ravenclawbest's prompt in her post to hpgirlslash. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.


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